The Devil's Due
by kitsunealyc
Summary: Six months after Voldemort's victory and the fall of Harry Potter, an angry spirit rises from the grave to wreak bloody vengeance. HP.The Crow crossover. Spoilers: HBP and The Crow, AU since DH, but some backstory spoilers in later chapters.
1. Resurrection

The Devil's Due

WARNING: Massive HBP Spoilers

Author's notes: I only own my ideas, nothing else. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the Crow mythology belongs to J. O'Barr. I'm just playing, promise. No profit, no lawsuit, please.

This is a revised version of the first chapter. I needed to change my timeline a bit to make the story work.

Many thanks to my betas, Selenya and Bneuensc. Thanks also to Selenya, who helped me conceive this bunny. On the night before her wedding, no less. Let's hear it for dedicated Goff Grrls!

------------------------------

Chapter 1 -- Resurrection

October 29, 11:30pm

_Another night, another murderous revel_, Snape thought with literal gallows humor, surveying a ballroom straight from Kubrick's wet dreams by way of a snuff film. Less than six months since Voldemort's victory and the final defeat of Harry Potter, and the Death Eaters' revels had turned into the homicidal equivalent of Tupperware parties. What did it matter to torture and kill a few Muggles, or even a mudblood, if you were encouraged to do it all the time, and rather doubted that there would be any repercussions? The Ministry was a shambles, the Order disbanded and its few remaining members disheartened and on the run. The Aurors, with the pragmatism that most people in such professions came to posses, had for the most part joined with Voldemort and were now responsible for tracking down said mudbloods and any other sympathizers.

In any other despotic regime, he thought, this is where things would begin to topple. With the external threat removed, internal strife and power grabs should have quickly demolished any stability that might have existed in the face of an "Other". But Voldemort was too savvy to let such a thing happen. Gone were the promises of power (a sure way to give your underlings notions), he now made no disguise that he ruled through fear and pain that only ceased if one consistently proved their loyalty. The most preferred way to do this was to report any dissent or unrest amongst your fellow loyals. The external enemy had been exchanged for an internal enemy. The Death Eaters were too busy turning on each other to unite against Voldemort. From a strategic standpoint, Snape realized, it was quite a brilliant ideological tactic, allowing--

The screams and begging pleas of one of the revel's victims (a Hufflepuff fourth year whose name he couldn't – didn't want to – remember) disrupted his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to cling to them. Deadpan sarcasm and rational logic, as subtle and elegant as the most difficult of potions, were his only refuges since The Fall, and his mind grasped at them with desperation as the child recognized him and began pleading with Professor Snape to please make it stop, please, she'd be good, she'd do all her potions homework please and three feet of extra credit and he could take all the house points he wanted and please just make it…

The two Death Eaters torturing the girl seemed to find her pleas (and Snape's disregard of them) vastly amusing.

"Oy, Snape, this one seems to want it from you bad."

"Aye," his friend agreed, catching on to the game, "you want ta have a go at 'er?"

Snape gathered cold disdain around him like a palpable presence. Turning, he addressed them – fence sitters who had only joined the cause after The Fall, and therefore had much to fear from a long-term supporter such as himself – with a drawling sneer,

"And what makes you think I would ever condescend to picking at your leavings? I am not some dog at your table. I am one of His Lordships most valued supporters. I am the man who killed Albus Dumbledore," a year and a half gone and he could almost say it now without wanting to vomit. His tone lowered to a whisper, "Best you remember that before I bother to learn your names so that I may drop them in His Lordship's ear." He straightened and surveyed the terrified looks on the men's' faces, smiling grimly. It would seem that the feared Potions Master had not lost his touch. The Death Eaters were as cowed as any First Years.

"Now get out of my sight. And leave your trash. I'll clean it up for you, since I don't trust you idiots to do it properly." In moments, the two men had scurried off, leaving Snape with a sobbing, bleeding Hufflepuff.

"Get up", he sneered, grabbing her arm and dragging her after him before anyone else tried to claim his 'prize'. He led her out of the main room and through dim corridors, muffling her sobs with a quick _Silencio._

It was not until they had left the Grosvenor Square mansion and traveled several streets over to a narrow, dirty alleyway that Snape released the charm. The girl – the name Puddleswop…Matilda…Tilly, sprung unbidden to his mind – gazed up at him with surprise and fear.

"Please," she whispered, "please Professor Snape…don't—"

"I have no intention of doing anything to you, Miss Puddleswop," he droned, suddenly feeling the weight of his years, and of all the questionable things he had done to get to this point, "except to tell you that it is no longer safe for you to stay in Britain." Spying an old tin can resting in the alley gutter, he drew his wand with a muttered _Portus._

"That Portkey will take you somewhere safe. Do you have any family left?" His gut clenched as she gulped and shook her head, "There are people at the other end who can help you. Miss Puddleswop," he fixed her with his dark eyes, hoping the seriousness of his demeanor would indelibly fix what he was about to say into her brain, "Don't come back here, to Britain. Ever. It's not safe. And do not tell anyone that I helped you, or I may not be able to help anyone else. Do you understand?" At her dumb nod, he backed away, always the forbidding Potions Master.

"Go."

Tilly Puddleswop hesitated a moment before her hand tentatively reached out to the Portkey he had just created. He could tell from her face that she half-believed this to be some cruel trick. He remained motionless. As she flickered out of existence, he saw her lips form a soft 'thank you'.

After she was gone, he removed the Portkey enchantment.

And this was what he was reduced to.

All the years of spying, all the sacrifices he made, all the horrors he stomached so that he could remain useful. He had killed his friend and mentor, the only man he ever trusted, the only one who ever trusted him, so that he might be in place for the Endgame. So that Harry Potter might have the chance to do the impossible. So that Voldemort might be stopped. He had done everything he was supposed to do, passed information, made sure the Dark Lord was relatively unguarded and weakened through subtle potions…and overconfident, unprepared, impetuous Harry Bloody Potter had still failed – had died with a look of surprise in his young green eyes.

Now Snape was all that was left. The Weasleys, icons as they were for the resistance, were all dead within days of Potter. He didn't know what had happened to Granger, but suspected that she would not have survived long either. Malfoy the younger, who had decided that he wasn't a killer and ended up aiding Snape, had only lasted a week. He'd refused to kill one of his classmates, a Ravenclaw…Chang? He was forced to do so under Imperius, then Crucio'd for his hesitation. Snape had found him a few hours later, self-inflicted cuts along his forearms so deep and long that they'd gouged over the Dark Mark. He still wasn't certain if he despised Malfoy for his cowardice, or admired him for his pragmatism. After all, discovery and death were inevitable. It was only a matter of time.

Snape was fairly certain that Tonks, Moody and Shacklebot headed whatever remnants of the Order still survived. Tonks could look like anyone (a useful survival skill, that), Moody was too paranoid and obstinate to die, and Shacklebot…well, Shacklebot was, to use a Muggle phrase, a 'bad-ass mother fucker'. Snape was fairly certain that of all of them, Shacklebot would survive 'til the bitter end. But so many others had fallen that it was hardly worth mentioning those who still stood. And none of them trusted Snape. They all saw the traitor who had betrayed Dumbledore and stood at Voldemort's side. The memories that might exonerate him, memories of all the planning that he and Dumbledore had done, carefully stored in a Pensieve, were destroyed the night Potter died. They had mingled with and been lost to the murky waters of the Thames. Better to be thought a traitor by the Order, Snape had believed, than to be discovered a traitor by Voldemort. At least this way he could still do some good.

Good. He snorted. At most he saved one, maybe two a night without being discovered. And he wondered for the thousandth time why he even tried—what the point was. He wondered if Malfoy's pragmatic solution might not be the best one.

Big Ben sounded the hour, pulling Snape out of his dour musings. Midnight. It was now technically October 30th. Devil's Night was now upon them, and bloodbaths would rule for the next three days to celebrate the rise, fall, and triumphant return of the Dark Lord. The Devil ruled every night now, Snape thought morbidly. Savagely kicking the now mundane tin can, he stalked out of the alley and back towards the revel.

-------------------------------

Far to the west of London, a few miles from a sleepy village on the Devon coast named Godric's Hollow, was a tiny, unassuming graveyard. It had the look of a family plot that had seen many generations of burials, but also a deal of recent neglect. Yet if anyone in that sleepy village had been asked about it, they would have denied any knowledge of the plot, the family line that it supposedly belonged to, or the hasty and secret burial that had taken place there six-months previous.

With the death of the last of the line, there was little call for anyone to remark on the Potter family plot, anyways.

The bare light of a sickle-moon shone faintly between the branches of the trees surrounding the plot. Yellowed leaves, turned gray in the darkened night, skittered across the grounds and caught in the long, unkempt grasses. Most of the stones were old, some crumbling, others bleached white with green runners of moss where rainwater had trickled and gathered. But there were three, huddled near the south fence, that looked newer. Two had already begun sprouting lichen growth, while the furthest one, the smallest one, still had the scoured clean look of a new gravestone.

The branches rustled as the wind began to pick up and more leaves blew free. In the distant village the church clock sounded midnight, and a flurry of motion exploded into the graveyard as a large black crow flapped down, landing on one of the newest stones. Its eyes gleamed like onyx as it began pecking at the stone, intermittent caws breaking the muffled night. The wind grew stronger, and the meager light dimmed as clouds quickly crossed over the sickle moon. The crow's feathers lost all sheen as the night darkened and drops of rain began spattering the stone, the leaves and the long grasses. Thunder rumbled lowly in the distance and the crow continued cawing and pecking, the intensifying rainfall lending an odd urgency and purpose to its actions.

The skies broke as lightening flashed with a crack of thunder, and the crow cawed in counterpoint. The rain came in torrential sheets, the branches overhead whipping about in the wind. There was a sudden disturbance at the base of the gravestone, and the black bird flapped its wings, hopping and cawing in a frenzy of movement. A pale shape worked its way out of the disturbed grass and dirt, then another pushed out, both fumbling frantically at the ground, pushing away the dirt that was quickly becoming mud. Arms emerged, then a head, eyes clenched against the mud, mouth open with a desperate gasp.

Shoving dirt, grass and leaves to one side, the mud-covered figure pulled itself from the grave, collapsing onto the ground in an exhausted, trembling heap. Rain sheeted down, quickly washing away the worst of the mud, leaving the figure pale and shivering, covered in tatters that might once have been clothes. The crow cawed and the figure doubled in pain as memories, too harsh, too bright, too painful for all that they were disjointed, flooded back.

Friends, love, betrayal, death, battle, sacrifice, the green fire of the Avada, and then nothing. And then…a pecking, a raucous caw, a summons. Things left undone, deaths that needed avenging, an evil that must be destroyed. And suddenly more pain, pressure, cold…and…the memories.

A tortured scream rent the air above Godric's Hollow, but in the raging storm, no one heard.


	2. The Crow Descends

WARNING: Massive HBP Spoilers

Author's notes: I only own my ideas, nothing else. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the Crow mythology belongs to J. O'Barr. I'm just playing, promise. No profit, no lawsuit, please.

This is the revised second half of the original first chapter. I've decided to break the story into smaller chunks for easier and quicker posting.

---------------------------

Chapter 2 -- The Crow Descends

False dawn was teasing the night sky when Snape finally returned to #12 Grimmauld Place. On Potter's death (the boy hadn't even had the foresight to leave a will), ownership had reverted to Draco, Narcissa's son and the only surviving male descendant of the House of Black. In true Slytherin style, he and Malfoy had ensured that the house would remain undetected by Voldemort, and therefore a haven for those who fought against him. When Malfoy died, Snape was not surprised to find that he was now the owner of the unplottable house. He would have been amused by the irony of himself owning Sirius' house, if he hadn't been disgusted by the needlessness of it all.

Dragging himself up the stairs, Snape went into the bathroom, turned the shower taps and began mechanically undressing. He hardly flinched as he stepped under the scalding water…just bowed his head and let it wash the horror and the memories away.

He'd managed to save another this night. A wizard around his age and a purported member of the resistance. After Snape got him out, after he took him to another safe alley and charmed another Portkey, the man had begun ranting about how Snape had betrayed them all. His words still cut at Snape's soul,

"It's your fault, all of this. You betrayed us back then, dooming James and Lily to death, and then betrayed us again, killing Harry and dooming us to this. And for what? Because James was **mean** to you in school?" the man had spat in his face, but Snape stood still and silent, "What did Lily do to you to deserve this? She was only ever nice to you! And Harry, What did Harry do? He was only a boy! And now you think that saving a few lives – lives that you've condemned in the first place – makes up for it? When we all know that you'll only betray us again, Slytherin slime—"

Snape had barely controlled his fury, only obliviating the man so that he wouldn't give Snape away, rather than performing the more dire curses that Snape so desperately wanted to perform. It had been an ugly scene, at least in part because Snape wondered how much of the man's accusations were true.

Oh, yes. He hated James. Always had. More than he hated Sirius, when it came down to it. Because at the end of it all, Sirius had just been a petty tormenter, but James had been…

Snape sighed and began scrubbing at his skin.

He'd held out on joining Voldemort and his Death Eaters until after he graduated from Hogwarts. He wasn't an idiot, and even then he knew that no matter if Voldemort's side won, it was ultimately the loosing side, especially for a half-blood like himself…but then…well, soon after graduation, all hope was lost, wasn't it? And so he gave in to the promise of power, gave in to the only hope he had for…and in the irony of all ironies, the linchpin for proving his loyalty, for gaining the power that he needed to attain his one desire, ended up being the true end of all his hopes.

He turned his face to the spray, washing away any trace of tears that may or may not have been there.

He hated James, true. But he never meant to hurt Lily. He'd only wanted…

Seventeen years ago Lily Potter had died. Because of him. The night that he learned she was slated for death, the night **he** signed her death warrant by revealing that bloody prophesy to Voldemort, was the night he went to Dumbledore and told him everything, swore an oath, began his penance. But it hadn't been enough.

It had been easy for so long. Voldemort had been defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived, many of his Death Eaters rounded up (although many others remained free). But then Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, and Snape had to look at Lily's eyes in James' face every day, and it was almost more than he could bear. Then Voldemort returned, and he had to turn spy because he knew better than almost anyone how terrible the Dark Lord's reign would be. And as much as he hated the boy because Lily chose to die for him, Snape had to protect him, to prepare him because…well…Lily chose to die for him.

She'd only ever been nice to him, even when he met her with the surly responses of a homely, bookish boy who didn't understand why a pretty, popular girl would bother being nice to him. She of the green eyes and red hair and inquisitive, heart-shaped face had been nice to him, and he'd loved her for it even through his surliness, and he'd hated James all the more when she chose him. Out of a petty, juvenile wanting to win her away from James, he'd betrayed them both. Ultimately he'd even failed their son.

That was the point. That was why it mattered, and why Draco's pragmatic option wasn't an option at all. He couldn't betray her again, even if it meant playing the bloody hero in a fight that was already lost.

Severus Snape shut off the water and stood dripping in the steaming shower, lank wet hair falling around his face, normally pale skin red from the scalding.

-----------------------------------

False dawn found the pale, dripping figure creeping towards an old Quidditch shed near an abandoned house. Misting rain still drizzled from patchy clouds, though the moon had long set. Ahead, a large black crow lighted on the shed's roof, cawing once before canting its head to one side and regarding the figure steadily. The lock on the shed was rusty, the damp wood around it was rotted and ridden with insects. When the figure tugged on the handle, the fasteners and wood crumbled and the door opened with ease. Inside were the hoops, markers and other paraphernalia for a pick-up game of Quidditch, including the crate that held the quaffles, bludgers and the snitch. Everything was covered with a layer of dust and cobwebs, turned to mud in places where the roof of the shed dripped.

In the corner, protected from the worst of the weather, were the brooms. A pale arm reached forward, lean fingers grasping the smooth, polished handle of the nicest. Even with the dust, the wood gleamed softly, the script _Firebolt_ in mellow gold along the handle. The figure pulled it out, hand stroking lovingly down the length, and flashes of memory flooded to the surface. A grand pitch, banners of red and gold, black and green, cheers and shouts and jeers and boos, a rider on a broom, long face capped by messy black hair, a flitter of gold…

The figure shook, face crumpled in pain. The broom clattered to the floor. Calling on the memories was too difficult, too agonizing yet. The crow cawed, and the figure straightened slightly, breathing heavily. Another caw sounded from outside and the pale figure bent to retrieve the broom, hand hesitating with a slight tremble before it wrapped around the wooden handle. The memories stayed mercifully quiescent. The figure moved back into the rain, broom in one hand. The crow perched on the lintel of the abandoned house, regarding the figure with a strangely patient urgency. _If you're done here_…it seemed to be saying. The figure nodded, calling the broom to life with a ragged 'up'.

The crow launched itself into the air as the figure on the broom swept aloft, both becoming diminishing dark blots as they headed east and north. Behind them, the abandoned house sat forlornly, windows broken, door hanging open, the rain beading on a sign above the lintel that read "The Burrow".

----------------------------

With his skin scoured as clean as his sins would allow, and his most painful memories pensieved so that he might glean a few hours sleep free of nightmares, Snape still found himself prowling the house, setting a chair to rights, dusting off a curio. Dawn was probably threatening in the east, but sometime during the past hour a deadening rain had moved in from the Irish Sea. Weather, Snape thought as he picked up his Death Eater's cloak and mask from the floor of the front hall, where he had shucked them in disgusted haste an hour earlier. As changeable as it was, it did make a good topic to fixate upon, when all others seemed too dangerous. One could expound for hours on British weather, and not exhaust the subject. He was brushing dust off his Death Eater's cloak when a faint shuffling sound from the porch made him freeze.

It couldn't be the Order, yet no one else knew of the unplottable house…no one but a member of the Order could find it. But they wouldn't come back here, would they? They'd abandoned this place after Snape's 'betrayal', sure that the traitor would give up their whereabouts. Yet, really, what was there to stop them from trying to use it now, a year and more after? They were Gryffindor enough that they might think the place would be left unwatched and unguarded after such a time. Or perhaps, in an emergency, they might try it anyways.

His thoughts were interrupted by a light scratching, as if a bird were scraping its talons against the wood of the door…or as if someone injured was there and couldn't manage much else.

With a muttered curse, Snape strode to the spyhole near the door. It would be just his luck to have to tend to a wounded and self-righteous Order member this night. Peering through, he saw nothing but shadows at first, then as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, a shape slowly emerged. It was leaning against the doorway, arms clutched around its middle as if wounded, shivering and wet in the rain.

Snape hesitated, then a part of him – the part that had led him to go to Dumbledore in the first place – stirred. No matter how painful or inconvenient, he couldn't just leave that person out there to die. With a muttered curse, he let the spyhole cover drop, pulled out his wand from the pocket of his night robes and opened the door to #12 Grimmauld Place.

The slight figure stood drenched, hand clenched around a dripping Firebolt, head bowed. Then the head raised, and Snape found himself staring into vivid green eyes that he never thought to see again. His breath caught, and his wand clattered unnoticed to the floor.

"Snape…Severus…" the figure rasped, the name like an accusation and a plea together. One pale, mud-streaked arm unwrapped and reached out trembling, "cold…so cold."

Half in shock, and against all better judgment for he knew that the Inferi still walked and served Voldemort, Snape swallowed his fear and reached forward, leading the soaked, trembling figure inside. As he snatched up his wand, a large crow fluttered to land on the bevel post, cawing loudly. Although he thought he had left superstition far behind with other childish things, he shut the door quickly against such a bad omen. Taking a shuddering breath, he turned to face the figure now dripping in the front hall.

In the (marginally) better light of the house, he could see the figure more clearly, but still his mind refused to process what was before him. The slight, pale form was dressed in tatters of what he could only assume were its burial clothes (not having been invited to that particular funeral). The figure gazed at him and again he was arrested by those eyes that had haunted him for so long. Vivid emerald green, set in a heart-shaped, inquisitive face, and framed by hair that, when wet, turned the color of rubies…or blood.

"Lily?" he whispered, barely aware he'd spoken at all.

"Harry," her voice rasped, as if it were painful to speak…as if even **being** was painful for her, "Where is Harry? Severus? Where is my son?"


	3. Remembrance

WARNING: Massive HBP Spoilers

author's notes: I only own my ideas, nothing else. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the Crow mythology belongs to J. O'Barr. I'm just playing, promise. No profit, no lawsuit, please.

------------------------------

Chapter 3 – Remembrance

October 30, 6:00am

A moment passed, perhaps two, while Snape stood dumbly staring into the eyes of a dead woman, yet it seemed to stretch on forever. It was only when she shivered particularly hard –_as if a goose is walking her grave_, he thought – that he was shaken from his stunned immobility. He snatched the pile of black wool that he had discarded moments before and, ignoring the utter wrongness of the fabric ever touching her, wrapped the pale woman in its folds. She clutched the edges around her, and he was momentarily distracted by her fingers, mud-streaked, with dirt caked under and around her short fingernails. She caught his distraction and gave a low, rasping chuckle.

"They lied. They don't grow," he looked up then, and haunted green eyes met his, "After death. Fingernails," she clarified, "they lied. They don't grow."

"I—," he cleared his throat and backed away a pace. The intensity, the anguish of those eyes was too much to bear that close, "Lily, how…how did you get here?" It was so inane, so much less a question than all the ones he wanted to ask, but it was all that he could squeeze out of his closed throat.

"There was a broom. I flew" she gestured vaguely towards the door. She, too, seemed to have backed up a space, deeper into herself, "from Godric's Hollow. As the crow flies," she chuckled roughly again.

"Lily—" he began again, but she interrupted him with a shake of her head.

"Please, Severus. I can't. Not yet. The…memories. Thinking is too hard. I just need…," her face, her entire body clenched, then she straightened and he saw in that moment the immovable determination that Voldemort must have seen when she faced him down, "I need to know what happened to my son."

So he told her. Standing in the front hall, staring into those green eyes that had haunted him for so long, he told her of Voldemort's attack on the Potter's hiding place, of Pettigrew's betrayal and Black's imprisonment, of James' and her own death, of The Boy Who Lived and Voldemort's failed killing curse. He told her what little he know of her son's life with her sister, and of his years at Hogwarts. He told her of Voldemort's rise and his own role as double, triple, quadruple agent. He told her of Dumbledore's death, of the failed search for the final horcrux, of her son's impetuous attack, and of his inevitable death.

She stood quietly through his recitation. As his final, toneless words died out, she moved listlessly into the parlour and sank onto a settee.

"And now?"

Taking her cue, he sat across from her, "and now Voldemort controls all of Wizarding Britain. Muggleborn and sympathizers have been hunted down or have fled. There's some resistance on the Continent, but Britain is an island in more ways than one. Nobody can penetrate well enough to do anything, and it wouldn't matter if they could. He holds his courts and his revels, and as long as the final horcrux remains secret and whole, Voldemort is unstoppable."

"And you stand at his right hand and do nothing…just as you did nothing when he killed Harry".

Snape's stomach dropped at the deadened accusation in her tone, but years of disguising his reactions as a spy served him well, and not the ghost of a flinch crossed his features. They sat in charged silence, Snape doing all he could not to stare as she sunk deeper into thought. She was alive, however accusatory she might be – moving, thinking, alive! How? No magic that he knew of could accomplish it. Even the Inferi were little more than reanimated drones. He was afraid to know the means, and found he didn't much care. Teenage feelings that he thought were long quashed and dead were reanimated alongside her. Stupid, ridiculous, and yet he couldn't entirely suppress that sputter of longing as he watched her hair dry from dripping blood into a familiar auburn fire. A dark shape flapping past the window drew her from her reverie.

"Who else?"

"What?" Her sudden question startled him as much as her renewed intensity.

"Who else is to blame? Who else stands at his right hand. Who else is responsible for his return and all the pain it brought. Who else is responsible for my son's death?"

He struggled to find his voice amidst the pain and guilt that her implied accusation stirred. Who _else_, she had demanded, "Nott and Avery. Crabbe and Goyle Senior. The LeStranges, but particularly Bellatrix. Lucius Malfoy. Pettigrew, of course," he fell silent.

"And you." She rose, black robes swirling around her pale legs, her burning eyes focused on something beyond him. He stared at his knotted hands and choked down an agreement as she moved past him to the front hall.

"What are you going to do? What do you want me to do?" he whispered, wanting this condemnation over with.

"Do?" He turned and saw that she had picked up his discarded Death Eater's mask and was running her fingers over it. She grinned at him then, and for the first time in a long time he felt more than despair. He felt fear, "What are we going to do? Tonight, we're going to a party."

----------------------

She had finally unnerved him, finally flapped the unflappable crow with that last statement (or maybe it was the grin, or perhaps both). Severus had shown her to a room and flapped off somewhere else, muttering about finding her some proper clothes. But he took his staring dark eyes and his beak of a nose and his fluttering black robes with him, and that was what she needed. She closed the door, closed the drapes, closed her mind against the persistence of crows – wanting her, needing her, calling her from her peace, revealing things too painful to encompass.

The room he'd put her in was one of the master suites, complete with a bathroom that had obviously been a modern amenity some time before the turn of the century – claw-foot tub and shower, free-standing washbasin, and toilet with ceiling tank. The suite was musty from long disuse, though it seemed at some point a Hippogryff had made its nest here. Opening the huge wardrobe that dominated one wall of the room, she realized why no human had bedded down in this place since its former occupant's death. These must have been Walburga Black's rooms. The overwhelming smell of mothballs assaulted her from the folds of black wool, gabardine, satin and velvet that inhabited the wardrobe. Clothes from the days before mass manufacture, when Wizards didn't dress much differently than Muggles. She pulled out one of the gowns, a walking ensemble with bustle and underskirt, all in black velvet. The memory of hatred, unhappiness, deep prejudice assaulted her. She could hear a woman's cutting voice, dripping with disdain, and a wild young boy's rebellious response. Dropping the gown, she backed away to the center of the room. The foreign memories receded, and she found herself wondering if there were any happy memories embedded in the House of Black.

She tried to explore the room more, but every object was a potential bomb, a flashpoint of painful memories and associations. Things she didn't want to think about, things she wanted to banish like the crows. She ended up lying in the middle of the floor and staring up at the ceiling, dirt-encrusted fingers absently running over the Death Eater's mask. Waiting. Waiting for night to fall.

She began to feel uncomfortable in her skin. The wool scratched against it, the dirt dried to it. Mechanically, she moved to the bathroom. The cloak became a pool of blackness on the floor, the mask a mocking grin at its center. Hot water, cold water, soap and scrub. Her body remembered the motions of how to do this – could do it without thought. Towel and dry and clean the mirror off to fix your—

Oh god.

She stared at her reflection, falling endlessly into the moment of realization of me/not me. The moment of recognizing that self means not self, where incompleteness is comprehended. The first terrible moment of loss. James. Harry. Lily. They were all gone. The woman in the mirror was dead. She was a shade, a shadow. She was the reflection. Other. Tentatively, she reached towards the dead woman in the reflection, and was surprised when the woman similarly reached out to her. Their fingers touched and the cool glass was like water between them. She flattened her palm but when she pushed the woman pushed back with equal force, denying her the rejoining she so desperately desired. Things to do, things left incomplete. In the back of her mind she heard the cawing of crows…no, No. NO!

Her fists smashed the mirror again and again, the reflected woman splintered into blood-smeared refractions, shards of reflected memories. Sobbing, Lily rested her forehead against the shattered mirror, a gut-deep roar of rage and sorrow tearing from her. Her hands dropped to rest in the basin, blood oozing from a dozen cuts, light winking at her from a dusting of shards. Her breathing slowed and her sobs subsided as she watched the cuts shrink away into smooth, unblemished skin. She realized then that there hadn't been any pain, only the memory of the pain that should have been. She was deadened to the pain. Deadened. Dead.

Gliding back into the bedroom, she lifted the discarded gown from the floor, wrapping herself in the black velvet embrace of a dark hatred that wasn't hers. The memory of those emotions ebbed and lay quiescent, tamed for the moment. She discarded the underskirt, instead pulling on thick black stockings she found deeper in the wardrobe, and sturdy high-buttoned boots. Then she returned to the bathroom, lifting the heavy wool robes from the floor and settling them around her shoulder. Having felt the press of emotions and memories from all sides, she now realized that Severus' robes were different. They carried despair with them, but also a deep, almost desperate conviction that let her ignore the memories. She wrapped herself in his Death Eater robes to shield against the alien emotions that clamored at the edge of her reason. Fingering the mask, she looked back up into the shattered mirror.

She couldn't feel her own pain, but she could make sure that those who gave her the memories of pain suffered as she had. She couldn't go back to her own grave, but she could bury those who had killed her and everything she loved. She heard the crow fluttering against the window. She couldn't wait for Severus. It was time.

She smiled, and dozens of broken, bloody, refracted images smiled back.


	4. Tracking the Prey

Disclaimer: I only own my ideas, nothing else. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the Crow mythology belongs to J. O'Barr. I'm just playing, promise. No profit, no lawsuit, please.

--------------------------

Chapter 4 – Tracking the Prey

Getting clothes for her had not been easy. It had taken several hours before the streets of Diagon Alley were deserted enough that he could slip unseen into an obscure little clothing shop at the end of the street. The proprietress had been happy (or rather, terrified) enough to close the shop for him, but she dithered forever over helping him, and he'd been forced to obliviate her afterwards. She was certain that he was buying the robes as some sort of sick game involving a poor, captured Muggle, and he couldn't afford to have her gossip about her fears. The stupid woman hadn't even considered that, were that the case, he'd have no need or reason to hide it. Hufflepuffs. It was a wonder any of them could manage to fasten their robes, much less work any magic.

Still, he'd succeeded in not being seen by anyone with more than two thoughts to rub together, who might wonder what exactly he needed the clothing for, and why he was acquiring it so secretively. Also, the complications were a useful distraction from the conflicting morass of thoughts and feelings that suddenly clamored for his attention. Now, as he made his way towards the Leaky Cauldron and the safe anonymity of Muggle London on the other side, the thoughts held in check began to break free.

She was alive, and she hated him, and just like her fool son she was going to make a suicidal attempt to destroy Voldemort, even knowing it was impossible to do so while the final horcrux remained out there somewhere. He had to stop her, somehow. Given his 'druthers, he'd convince her to leave Britain and its problems far behind, but he already knew that she wouldn't. He'd have to use guile and cunning, trick her into leaving for her own good.

He was almost to the front entrance of the Cauldron, taking his usual circuitous route through the shadows of the public room, when his scattered attention was caught by a whispered conversation between two patrons.

"—the Dark Mark, that as hasn't been seen since **His** death, there as clear as anythin', hangin' above in the sky."

"And Nott? I hear that what the Dark Lord did to 'im…"

"T'isn't right. Not ever, to die like that. There's no-one as knows what he did to upset the Dark Lord, but it must have been somethin', to kill a man like he did, and in his own home. Just t'isn't right"

Snape halted and his eyes darted towards the two men as the subject of their conversation penetrated his awareness, but already they had noticed him and were circumspectly contemplating their drinks. If they'd started whistling, they couldn't have looked more guilty. In the normal course of things, Snape might have questioned them, but a chilling suspicion had taken hold of him.

As far as he knew, Nott was still high in Voldemort's favor. The revel he had hosted the night before, though not attended by the Dark Lord, had been fitting tribute to his reign. While none of the Death Eaters were unassailable, Nott came as close as one could.

And Snape had left an angry and self-righteous Gryffindor alone for several hours.

With growing unease giving him speed, Snape strode out of the Leaky Cauldron.

It took him several minutes to find a safe deserted alley to apparate from. He appeared in the old, abandoned mews down the lane from Nott's mansion and made his way quietly to the rear gate. Letting himself in, he was already struck by the wrongness of the place. There should have been House Elves cleaning after last night's revel, but everything at the rear of the house was still. He was only slightly relieved to note that no Dark Mark hovered in the sky. Obviously, the gossip he had overheard had been second- or third-hand.

Snape let himself in through the kitchens and made his way into the house beyond. Immediately the feeling of wrongness intensified. It was the smell…the distinct odor of charred meat, so out of place in the Georgian mansion. It seemed to be coming from the ballroom. He made his way to the servant's entrance behind the musician's alcove.

What he saw when he entered was enough to make even his hardened stomach turn, and he began to shake his head slightly in unconscious denial. She wouldn't have done this. Not this. Whoever had done this, it couldn't have been her.

The Nott family was an old Wizarding family, tracing their lineage back to the days before the Inquisition. In fact, they were quite proud of the way that their ancestors had become successful "witch hunters" during the Burning Times, tracking down and persecuting innocent Muggles for the sadistic irony of it.

Whoever had killed Nott had done so with similarly sadistic irony. The ballroom's chandeliers had been lowered, probably for cleaning after the revel, but one of them was raised again. Nott's charred corpse was chained to it, while underneath the remains of a bonfire made from broken chairs smoldered red amongst black ashes. Traced in black ash around the bonfire was a silhouette that looked something like a bird in flight.

"The fire was purposely constructed to burn slowly. He must have screamed for at least the first half-hour. It's a wonder the House Elves didn't take him down," Snape jerked only slightly as Lucius Malfoy, ever cool and collected, strolled up to him. The pale, slender man arched one fair brow, then turned and looked up at the tableau of Nott's murder. His attitude resembled that of a critic at an art gallery opening -- distantly appreciative, but still looking for something to disparage, "of course, with his tongue cut out, any commands he gave to them were probably unintelligible," Malfoy tsked, and Snape got the distinct impression that the other man was clicking his tongue over the poor quality of servants, and not the death of their comrade.

"So, Voldemort **did **order this?" Snape's voice, when he found it, was as cold and unaffected as his companion's.

"No," scorn shot through Malfoy's denial, "Our **Lord** did not condone any such action. Though I imagine he would be impressed by the inventiveness of the execution, were he not livid about its occurrence. He sent me to investigate. But tell me Severus, what brings you here? It seems very convenient that you should be on the scene so quickly."

"Rumors have already spread to Diagon Alley. I came here to investigate as well, and to report to our Lord any truth I might find."

"Ah, yes. Ever the obedient lapdog."

Despite the smug, knowing quality of Malfoy's tone, Snape knew that the man was just baiting him, and that Malfoy had no real suspicions of his involvement. Still, it was always better to cut such snipings short before they grew into actual ammunition that could be used against him.

"Yes, Lucius. I have always been a loyal supporter of Lord Voldemort. And a competent one. No **Snape** has ever disappointed the Dark Lord, or failed to carry out one of his orders."

It was a cruel blow, referring to Draco like that. Not only had the boy's death devastated his father, but the younger Malfoy's failures had diminished Lucius' standing with Voldemort. At Snape's words, Malfoy's cool demeanor cracked; a sharp breath hissed between his teeth, and his eyes flashed with pain and hatred. His knuckles whitened around the head of his cane, and for a moment Snape thought the other man might actually strike him. Malfoy was cannier than that, however, and quickly brought himself under control.

"Of course," the pale man smiled tightly, "No one would ever imply otherwise, Severus." Now, if you'll excuse me, I must arrange to have **that** removed," he motioned towards Nott's suspended and charred corpse, "and take my report back to our Lord."

"By all means," Snape turned to leave, not envying Lucius the report he would have to make, and the inevitable Crucio that would follow. Some remnant of pity made him turn again, "Lucius. Rumor on Diagon Alley is that the Dark Mark was seen floating above this place. That Nott was killed for slighting our Lord. I'm sure that with a bit of judicious tweaking, this…unfortunate circumstance could only further Lord Voldemort's reputation and power."

Malfoy didn't say anything, but the look of relief that flashed across his features as Snape turned away again was acknowledgement enough. Whatever his flaws might be, Lucius Malfoy genuinely mourned his son's death, and that honest feeling earned him a small bit of mercy in Snape's eyes.

_For you, Draco_, he thought as he began making his way back to #12 Grimmauld Place, and a confrontation he was beginning to dread.

-------------

Lily watched from the shadows as Severus entered the Leaky Cauldron, shrinking back and pulling up her hood in case he might glance around and see her. He was too intent on staying hidden himself to notice her, however. So intent that he almost missed the buzz of rumor that already circled amongst the patrons. She saw him stop as he neared the door, a look of disbelief and annoyance briefly flashing across his features, then he strode out the door with renewed purpose, and looking very angry.

_He knows_, she thought.

Nott hadn't been particularly forthcoming as she prepared him for death, even before she had sliced away his tongue. He hadn't known anything about the horcruxes, or where she might find Voldemort. He'd even proven to be pretty useless in telling her where to find his fellow Death Eaters, though near the end she learned that one of them might have taken rooms in the Leaky Cauldron. That was after the tongue was gone, and she'd had to narrow down what he was trying to say by using the bonfire in a game of reverse hot and cold.

It hadn't helped that he kept choking on his own blood.

She was jarred from her reverie when a black shape fluttered in through the entrance usually reserved for owls. It landed on a beam high above her and pecked lightly at the wood a few times with its hard beak. Glancing back at the entrance to the pub, she saw an oily, slick-looking wizard in a greatcloak sweep in, dragging a bruised and bound young woman, obviously a muggle from her clothing, in his wake. All of the patrons looked shocked at the unlikely couple, and Lily noticed that several faces tightened in despair, and several sets of shoulders sagged in defeat.

The oily wizard was making some sort of impromptu speech to the patrons about what happened to mudbloods who stood against the Dark Lord, but Lily was already slipping up the back stairs. She had her own assignation to keep.


	5. Captive Child

Disclaimer: I only own my ideas, nothing else. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the Crow mythology belongs to J. O'Barr. I'm just playing, promise. No profit, no lawsuit, please.

Author's Note: The dark gets darker. Here's where I start earning my FR21!

---------------------

Chapter 4 – Captive Child

Avery finished his speech, then shoved Granger up the stairs towards his room.

She was his prize. Oh, he'd have to turn her over to the Dark Lord tonight, and she'd have to be in relatively undamaged condition, but he was the one who had tracked her down, hunting her for months. Most of Voldemort's supporters thought her dead, but in truth she was the last living symbol of resistance. With her capture and death, the Dark Lord's power would be secure. And it was Avery who had accomplished it, not that crazy LeStrange bitch (a right nutter, she was), the increasingly incompetent Malfoy, or the treacherous Severus Snape (Avery still didn't trust that bastard), but him, a second-generation Death Eater and son to Voldemort's first supporter. In reward, to him was given the honor of making sure she was primed for her presentation to the Dark Lord.

He hoped she was a screamer.

Opening the door to the room he regularly used for his diversions, he ushered the bound girl in, shoving her forward onto the wooden bedframe. The new proprietor of the Cauldron always made sure to remove the mattress for him; a simple scourgify charm could only clean up so much blood.

"Are you going to rape me?"

The loud-mouthed bitch hadn't stayed silent for more than two minutes since he caught her. He spared her a sneer as he swept off his cloak and hung it on a hook. He pulled out a dark velvet bundle and moved towards the bed.

"No. I'm not. Unlike Malfoy, I don't fancy fucking animals…or vermin."

He unrolled the bundle on the bedside table, his hand lightly, lovingly skimming over the implements nestled in the black. They were beautiful – gleaming steel blades of different lengths and widths, with handles of chased silver. One of the few Avery family heirlooms. His family tree wasn't particularly old or distinguished like the others in the inner circle, but it did have a few luminaries lighting it and a strong family tradition passed from father to son.

He pulled out one of the knives, the one that he hadn't had a chance to use on the last whore before she died. He'd make it up to the blade this time. It was a rather large, single-edged knife with several wicked barbs along its back edge. For all its size, it was satisfyingly sharp. He heard the Granger girl's breath catch as she saw the light gleam off the silver. She began struggling frantically against her bonds, and he pulled out his wand with his free hand. He hated strugglers. It was so much easier when his patients would just lie still.

Before he could cast the spell to immobolize her, he heard a rustling at the window. Turning, he saw a large black crow flap through the open casement, lighting on the top edge of the wardrobe.

"What the…? Here, you. Get out of here," he moved to shoo off the cawing bird, slashing at it with the blade. That's when he saw the cloaked figure, dressed like a Death Eater, watching from the shadows between the wardrobe and the window.

"Here now. Who're you? How'd you get in here?"

" 'Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore,' " the figure replied in a woman's low, sing-song voice.

"What? What's that mean, then?" Avery's hand tightened around the handle of his blade. He hated to be interrupted. It set him off his game, "you better have a good reason for coming in here. Did our Lord send you? If not, it'll be the worse for you. Who are you?"

" 'Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore,' " The figure cocked its masked head, but at his continued incomprehension the head sagged with an exasperated sigh, "Really, Avery, you should have bothered to read some Muggle literature at some point. It might have saved your life."

"Muggle lit--?" the clinical detachment he'd been stoking in himself dissipated, and he was left with hot fury. Dropping his wand, he lunged forward, slamming the figure against the wall with one hand around her throat and the wicked blade flat alongside her face. He trembled with rage and excitement as he pressed against her. Bugger wands. He'd always preferred the up and close. Sliding the blade along the fabric of the hood, he slowly cut her mask away. The Death Eater's hood fluttered to the floor like a dying black bird.

She was pretty, in an Irish sort of way – red hair and green eyes. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place her. Then again, he liked the Irish girls…did them a lot. They were made of sturdier stuff than the English, lasted longer. That was probably why she looked so familiar. He heard the Granger girl gasp behind him and he spared her a brief glance.

She was staring at the woman, cow-eyes wide and jaw slack-open. Probably hoping he'd do the woman first and give her a little more time. Not a bad idea, that. It would take the edge off, so that he'd be sure not to damage the Dark Lord's prize too much. Plus, Granger was panting in uneven, wheezing breaths. He should have known. Not a screamer, that one. A breather. The worst sort, really, all that gasping and huffing. Like cutting open a great big bellows. Not a bit of satisfaction in them. He turned his attention back to the woman he had pinned to the wall. Despite his rough grip at her throat, she was smiling slightly at him, completely still and serene. Ah, now this one, she'd try not to scream, but he knew eventually he could pull it from her like sweet music.

He moved his knife to her throat and quickly searched her with his free hand, but she had nothing, no wand or weapon, just layers and layers of black velvet. She smiled the entire time his hand groped her body. Once he was sure she was clean, he slid his hand into the hair at her nape to steady her head, smiling back at her.

"Pathetic rescue attempt, my dear. What, did you think I wouldn't know right off you weren't really a Death Eater?" He thrust her more firmly against the wall, but her smile just widened, "Oh, you like that, do you?" The knife slid up to graze her cheek and he leaned close to whisper, "Well, I'll give you something to smile about."

The mudblood on the bed gave a choked gurgle, but the redhead's eyes just widened slightly as he carved her a smile from ear to ear. Her flesh parted so easily before the silver edge of the blade, just the slightest bit of resistance. The blood wept like warm satin over his hand. He began laughing for the sheer joy of it, but his exultation was cut short when she threw back her head and began laughing with him, mouth open too wide, slit cheeks gaping, blood streaming down her throat to soak the darkness of her cloak. Unnerved, he pushed away from her, stumbling back several steps.

Her head jerked forward again, her mouth clapping shut by the force of the movement. The wounds he'd carved across her face began to knit together. When she smiled again, her cheeks were whole and unblemished, only the blood that smeared across them stood as proof that he'd sliced her.

"What is this?" He whispered.

"I'll tell you what it isn't, Avery," her smile dropped, and suddenly he knew where he'd seen those piercing green eyes before, "it isn't your lucky day."

With a mad roar, he rushed forward to skewer her. It seemed as if she was just going to stand there and let him stick her, but then he heard the shouted _Impedimentia_ behind him, and felt the familiar torpor overtake his legs. He toppled to the floor in his headlong rush. In an instant, the woman had darted forward, catching up his bloodied knife and skewering his right hand to the wooden floorboards with it. Moments later, his left hand was skewered by another of his blades, and she was straddling him, the rest of the velvet bundle draped across his stomach. The filthy mudblood was huddled on the floor, his discarded wand in her bound hands, which were twisted to one side of her so she could train it on him. She was still staring at the green-eyed woman like she was a ghost, but now he knew why. Granger's hesitant whisper was all the confirmation he needed.

"You…you're Lily Potter."

Avery lay panting, the edges of his vision beginning to buzz white with the pain from his hands. It was true. He recognized her from school. It couldn't be, but it was Lily Evans.

The red-haired woman who couldn't be Evans but somehow was rose from her straddling position. She moved over to the Dark Lord's prize, the prize that Avery had worked so hard to win, and cut her free with his own blades. He snarled at this and began struggling, but the effort only made the white buzzing at the edge of his senses ring more loudly. Evans looked over to him, and her face was as cold as any Death Eater's.

"I'm only letting you keep your tongue because I want information. If you keep this up, I'll cut it out like I did Nott's."

His struggles subsided, and he began panting to keep from passing out. He vaguely realized that Granger was prattling questions while Evans kneeled beside him and examined his precious heirlooms.

"How…how can this be? You're really here. You saved me. Are you here to stop Voldemort? How are you alive? Everyone thought you were dead? How is this possible? Is Harry alive too?"

Evans looked up again, and whatever look was in her eyes, it shut Granger up.

"You knew Harry?"

Granger knelt down on his other side. His breathing had eased, the pain had subsided, but everything around him had a strange, muffled quality, as if he was wrapped in cotton. He noticed that Granger was crying. She hadn't cried once the entire time since he'd taken her captive, and **now** she was crying? Bitch.

"He…he was my best friend."

Evan's face took on a strange, hungry expression, "Show me."

"Show…what? I…I don't know how—" but Evans was already reaching across him to the girl, brushing her bloody hands over the younger girl's bushy hair. Nothing happened to Granger, but Evans suddenly gasped, her eyes clamping shut, her fingers tangling in the girl's hair. She began trembling, then shaking. Then she was pulling away with a ragged breath. A tear formed and ran down her cheek.

"Enough," she whispered, trying to wipe the tear away. She only succeeded in smearing it into the blood. She looked up at Granger, then back down at him. Picking up a knife, she began slicing away his clothing with calm deliberation.

"You should leave now," she told Granger, "Harry is dead. And so is everyone who killed him," Avery shuddered as she laid the cold scalpel against his cheek. Suddenly, the intensity of those green eyes was entirely focused on him, "some of them just don't know it yet."

He heard Granger scrambling to get out of the room, but he couldn't look away from those eyes. His death had finally come for him, and he couldn't look away.

"Now," she said when they were alone, "I believe we were learning to smile…"

------------------------

Author's Notes: The two lines that Lily quotes are of course from Poe's "The Raven" (can one do a Crow fic without it?). I won't include a lot of poetry quotes, but in my mind a Crow story just isn't a Crow story without it. It lends to the gothangst atmosphere.

Lily's next to last line is a close paraphrase of Eric Draven's line from the original Crow movie, "They're all dead. They just don't know it yet." For the record, I will always try to write my own dialogue, rather than quote or paraphrase from any of the canon texts. In this particular case, I just really think this line resonates with the larger thematics of the Crow story, and I can't think of a cooler way to say it. Unfortunately, I am not a very cool person, and I can't come up with dialogue nearly as cool as some of the lines from the comic book or original film. That's why I'm writing a Harry Potter/Crow crossover. I'm way cooler than the characters in Harry Potter!


	6. Her Eyes, So Innocent

Author's notes: I only own my ideas, nothing else. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the Crow mythology belongs to J. O'Barr. I'm just playing, promise. No profit, no lawsuit, please.

This is a shorter chapter, for which I apologize. The chapter after this one is too different to post them together as a single chapter.

---------------------------

Chapter 5 – Her Eyes, So Innocent

Snape could smell the blood from the moment she entered the house. It mixed with the smell of rain on wool, and other scents…darker and more foul. Scents he'd encountered before, but never thought to associate with **her**. He stepped into the hallway as she began treading up the stairs, ready to confront her over what he had found at Nott's mansion, but the sight of her was like a punch in the gut.

She was covered in viscera, drying to a sticky mass and smelling at this close range like the worst of charnel houses. Blood covered the lower half of her face, and in her hand she carried a vicious-looking silver blade with barbs along the back edge. Like her, it was sticky with blood. She paused on the stairway, regarding him over the banister. A flash of something that might have been remorse or guilt crossed her features, but it was quickly concealed. It was enough to let him compose himself. Whatever she had done, she was conscious of the awfulness of it. Whatever had brought her back, there was still some remnant of the Gryffindor he had known.

"Lily," he paused, letting the silence hang until he could compose himself. It was too easy. He had become too accustomed to things like this. Horror was a part of his everyday existence. He gestured at her robes…**his** robes, "That didn't come from Nott."

"Hmm?" she had looked away and was turning the blade over and over in her hand. She looked up at him again, "No. Avery. But he was almost as useless. He had no idea what the final horcrux was or where to find it. Though at least now I know where Voldemort will be tonight, assuming nobody warns him," she began to walk upstairs again. He rounded the newel post and grabbed at her arm, spinning her to face him. She only had to tilt her head up a little to meet his eyes. Two risers above him, and their faces were almost level.

"What did you do?"

"I killed him, Severus. Why are you asking inane questions, when you already know the answers. I killed him. With his own knives. Just like he killed all the others. Like he was going to kill me, and that poor girl he held captive."

"Did you kill Nott, too?" She just cocked her head and regarded him with a look chillingly similar to the one he used on his first years. The long-suffering look of one constantly confronted with stupidity. The question 'why' died on his lips. His shoulders sagged slightly, although whether in resignation or relief he couldn't say. He had worried that she wouldn't return, but now he knew why she had, "Vengeance. That's why you're here. And now you're going to kill me."

"No, I'm not," the edge to her voice made her words anything but reassuring, "I'm going to kill you last. You're still useful to me. You know where to find them, you'll know how to draw them out. You'll help me, Severus, because of your guilt. And you'll let me kill you last, because you want an end to all this."

Everything she said was true, but to hear her speak it, to hear the callous words from her, appalled him. He wanted to deny it, wanted to drone some self-assured reply that would rip apart her own assumptions, but he couldn't. The end was in sight, and it would be by her hand. There was a part of him that was darkly amused by the poetry of it, but a greater part of him was troubled

"What happened to you, Lily?" he whispered, "What terrible force called you here and turned you into this…"

"Monster? But you know what happened, Severus. We're not so different anymore. You're nothing like the Severus I knew in the past. You've become more…subtle in your cunning. You've become so accustomed to deceiving people that I don't believe even you know what side you're fighting for anymore. And I," she looked down at the knife still in her hands. They began to tremble slightly.

" 'Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster…', " he murmured, realizing that he knew all too well what had brought about these changes in her.

" 'And if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you', " she finished for him. She laid her hand gently along his cheek, and the soft smile that lit her eyes was sad and knowing, "I may have become a monster, but I'm not mad, at least, no more than you are. I'm doing what needs to be done, what I've been called to do. After I'm done, I can rest. I can return to my family, and be at peace. Will you help me? Will you help me find my rest?"

"You know I will."

"Because you feel guilty"

He remained silent, unwilling to play this particular game of question and answer.

"Severus?" she prompted.

"You know why," his answer was sullen, begrudging. He suddenly felt awkward and seventeen.

"Yes. I do," she lowered her hand and he closed his eyes against the pity in her gaze. He heard her turn and begin to mount the stairs, "I'm going to wash, and change, and maybe sleep. You should do the same."

Her final words stayed with him long after she closed the door to her room,

We're going to have a busy night 

---------------------

Note: The quote is aphorism 146 from Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil. There are many translations, I picked the one that I felt had the most poetic flow (you can find some really clunky and unwieldly doozies out there.)


	7. Rain Forever

**Chapter 7 – Rain Forever**

"What's this?"

Lily glanced up at Severus' question as she adjusted one of his Death Eater cloaks around her shoulders. She had been only mildly surprised to find he had several. Apparently, blood-drenched cloaks were a hazard when one was a Death Eater. Underneath the cloak she was wearing another of Walburga's ensembles, this one in severe black gabardine and worsted. The old woman's hatred and prejudice seethed at the edges of Lily's senses.

She stilled as Severus lifted a hand and with a finger gently traced the black slashes she'd drawn across her cheeks. She knew from her time before the cracked mirror upstairs that with her pale skin and black-smudged eyes they gave her the look of a mad-grinning clown. Her lips widened in a smile that held no humor.

"A reminder, Severus. Every wound should leave a scar. It's what makes us human."

She could feel the panic rising to the surface as she contemplated what she'd done after Avery had given her those wounds, as she contemplated what she was called to do this night. Severus blinked at her words, but his cold black eyes remained shuttered and distant. She wondered how long ago he'd abandoned his humanity. If she stayed her course, would she end up like him? A gloomy, black crow living in the past, gazing sullenly out at the world from behind his loneliness, yet cawing his dissatisfaction whenever anyone dared to disturb his solitude?

"You're human, Lily—"

"Not now, Severus." She marveled at the improbability of comfort coming from him. His finger was still tracing her cheek. She shook it away, "Later…you can make your attempts to comfort and reassure me later," her black-feathered guide landed on the porch railing. She smiled humorlessly as Severus jerked away from the bird, "Let's go. We have work to do."

The crow launched itself into the air, soaring through the gloaming while the darkening landscape of London spread out under it like a grimy topographical map. Down below, their black-cloaked forms moved through the rain-slicked streets. The gloomy drizzle that had started in the early hours had not let up. It darkened pavement and stone in shades of gray, draining color and life from the city.

With a strange, layered vision Lily could see the crow's perspective of mapped streets overlaying her own view of the twisting warrens. It was dizzying and seductive. The distant, alien view of the crow let her leave her own body, her own thoughts, her own pain and fear and guilt, and the flashes of emotions and memories that she pulled from everything she touched. When she soared free, the trace remnants of bloodsmell, the recollection of Nott's wordless howls and Avery's choked begging, the feel of Severus' wary gaze boring into her, all were left behind. When she gave herself up to that other vision, that other layer of perception, she was able to ignore the pangs of empathy and compassion. It gave her the detachment necessary to do what she had to do.

And it horrified her.

Pulling back from the soaring abyss of the presence above, she stopped momentarily, leaning against a nearby wall for support. Severus stopped beside her, tentatively placing one hand on her arm in concern.

"Lily…"

"I'm fine." She struggled away from his concern, even as she focused on his voice, his touch, to anchor her to her body, to the shadowed alley, and to the enormity of what she was about to do. She shook her head and continued walking; Severus fell in at her side.

"Tell me about them," she instructed him.

"Sorry?" She didn't turn, but his confusion was evident from his tone.

"The others. Voldemort's supporters. Why do they follow? What is it about them that allows them to do these…things." She knew already, somehow. Asking him was pointless. She knew because the crow knew. Yet she wanted…needed to know some other way. When he remained silent, she filled the space between them with words, "Vengeance is a horrid thing, Severus, unless it can be leant meaning through metaphor and irony. Nott was a hedonist, so he was consumed by the flames of his own pleasure pursuits. Avery was a sadist who tasted the steel of his own blades. But what of the others?"

She sensed his hesitation, as he processed the implication that what he told her would inform how she killed them – his colleagues, his _friends_. She wondered if he was aware how twisted and shadowed his loyalties had become. Or perhaps, she conceded, they'd always been this ambiguous. She couldn't be sure; the Severus Snape she'd known hadn't had friends. He'd kept everyone at a distance with sullen looks and an acidic tongue. He'd always given the impression of being emotionally unassailable. Affectless.

It was what had drawn James and Sirius to torment him so brutally, that challenge Severus offered. It was what drew her to him now, for different reasons. His quiet presence was a more comforting refuge than the soaring abyss that cawed above her and called her to vengeance. She understood what he wanted from her, even as she knew he would never impose that wanting on her. And when she let her mind flicker over possibilities, it didn't fill her with revulsion the way the thought of killing did.

"Crabbe and Goyle." His rich voice broke the silence that had stretched between them. It took her a moment to realize that it was in response to her question. Apparently, Severus had decided to rest his loyalties with her. His tone was thick with sneering, "They're interchangeable. Too much inbreeding, perhaps. They're bullies, simple and straightforward. They like having power and they like wielding it. If they were more intelligent, they'd be Voldemort's most trusted lieutenants because their ambitions are so simple and easily fed. But I suppose if they were more intelligent, they wouldn't be so simple."

He fell silent as they passed a few muggles, homeless and huddled in the alleyway they were traversing. Human trash. She felt a twinge of guilt, all her own. She hadn't even noticed them until he did.

"Bellatrix," he continued once they'd left the shivering forms behind, "she's insane. She's more Voldemort's toy than a serious lieutenant. Fanatically loyal, but completely unpredictable. Lucius is entirely the opposite. If you understand his motivations he's completely predictable and not the least bit loyal."

"And what are his motivations?" Severus had stopped before a door in the alley. She stopped at his side so that he had to hunch over her to answer her question.

"He's an ideologue. He believes his own rhetoric. Utterly. Superiority of the Purebloods, separation from the Muggle world. He follows Voldemort because he's convinced himself that a megalomaniacal half-blood is the way to achieve it. He's so stubbornly convinced in the rightness of his own beliefs, one could almost mistake him for a Gryffindor."

"Pettigrew," he snorted dismissively, "Pettigrew wants power, but he's too much a coward to try to take it for himself. He's willing to bend and scrape and lurk in the shadows, feeding off the scraps he's offered. He's the perfect sycophant."

He lapsed into silence, then reached for the door handle. She grasped his arm, staying him. She wasn't finished with him yet.

"And you?" she asked.

She felt his arm tense just slightly beneath her hand. If she hadn't been touching him, she doubted she would have sensed any reaction at all. She allowed herself a small smile at his self-containment. Didn't he realize that it just enticed others – James, Sirius, and now her – to try to break it?

"I suppose I'm a pragmatist," he breathed. He subtly tried to pull his arm from her grip, but she tightened it, pulling him even closer to her as she did. The black of their robes mingled.

"A pragmatist? You prefer to deal in realities? No madness or ideologies or dreams of power for you?," she pressed even closer, playing the sudden tension between them, marveling at her own bent towards sadism. Above her, the crow cawed in approval, "Poor Severus. You never dreamed I would return. The thought never entered your reality. My presence, it must be torment for you, pragmatist that you are."

She stepped away then, letting the tension snap. His eyes flashed; he looked like he'd been knifed in the gut. She reached for the door, a satisfied smile slipping across her face because she'd got to him. This time it was his hand that stopped her.

"And you, Lily?" She glanced at his hand on her arm, then up into the blackness of his eyes. Already they were shuttered again. She could have easily twisted away from his grip, turned away from his question, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"We already discussed this," she replied steadily, "I'm a monster."

"No, Lily. You're not. You don't have to be."

"No…," she started to pull away then, but something, some flicker of feeling in his eyes stopped her, compelling her to give him a more honest answer than she'd intended, "No. but I have a monster inside me. Very close to the surface. Who must be fed if I'm ever to return to my rest. That's all that matters."

She opened the door, letting them in to the building that would house Voldemort's victory celebration.

And his defeat.


	8. Pain and Retribution

**Chapter 8 – Pain and Retribution**

Goyle was nervous.

If asked why, he would have denied it. Actually, if anyone had asked him why, he would have bashed their face in, then shoved it into the pavement while he cast a nice flensing curse for good measure. When Goyle was nervous, he got even meaner than usual.

The revel had started, but most of the early arrivals stood in small clusters, worrying over the news of the day. The whispers about what had been done to Nott were getting louder, but Lucius Malfoy had done his job well, slipping in and out of enough conversations that people were beginning to repeat the party line. By the time the Dark Lord arrived, every soul in the room would be claiming with conviction that Nott's fate was what awaited any who angered their Master. Some of them might even believe it.

Goyle didn't believe it. Not that such an act was beyond the Dark Lord, but that Nott's death was due to Voldemort's retribution. Goyle knew about Avery; he had seen the… evidence… first-hand when he and Crabbe had gone to get Granger. The Mudblood had been long gone, and Avery's blood….

Goyle took a hefty swig of his firewhiskey and surveyed the unwitting revelers. For the first time, he found himself envying them. None of them had to spend the afternoon scouring the bloody imprint of a bird from the walls of an anonymous room in the Leaky Cauldron.

The only piece of luck so far this day was that Crabbe had the bright idea to bring in Malfoy, otherwise tonight's revel might have been buzzing with the news of Avery's demise as well. There was no way even Malfoy could have sold the idea of both Nott and Avery falling afoul of their Lord on the same day.

So, Goyle was nervous. It was only a matter of time before someone wondered where Avery was, and why the Mudblood wasn't on display. It was only a few steps from that before the Dark Lord's paranoia caused him to lash out at whomever he saw fit to blame. Goyle had seen loyal Death Eaters killed by the crossfire of that kind of situation on more than one occasion.

Shoulders twitching, he looked around for someone inconsequential to hit.

" 'Ere, Goyle. I need your help."

"What is it?" he growled at Crabbe, who wasn't inconsequential, but might do in a pinch. Recalling that his compatriot was more than able to fight back, he forced his fists to unclench.

"Someone forgot to bring the specimens for Bellatrix's experiments. She's in a right strop about it, and Rudolphus has enough to do with preparing for our Lord's arrival. Malfoy wants us to take care of it."

Goyle was about to snarl that he wouldn't be playing errand boy to the Lestranges or Malfoy, when he realized that this might not be the best time to rock the boat. Crabbe must have come to the same conclusion to submit so readily to performing such a simple task.

Still, neither of them had to like it – or be nice about it.

"Fine," he said, draining the last of his firewhiskey, "let's get this over with. Maybe we can have a little fun with 'em before we turn them over to Bellatrix."

For the first time since arriving at the Leaky Cauldron that afternoon, Goyle was smiling.

Finding specimens proved quicker and easier than either wizard had imagined. Most of the Muggles in the area around the Lestrange's townhouse had moved away after the rash of disappearances and murders became more than even they could ignore. But every society has its dregs – the ones that don't matter, the ones that no-one will miss – and these huddled in conveniently large numbers in the nearby alleys and stoops. Unlike the upstanding members of Muggle society, they'd had no way to flee.

It was a moment's work to grab two unsuspecting Muggles and bodily haul them back through the townhouse and down to Bellatrix's lab. It would have gone more quickly, but the Muggles had more fight in them than Goyle or Crabbe expected, and the two wizards spent an enjoyable few minutes beating them into submission.

Hauling one of the two subdued captives down the stairs, Crabbe waited impatiently while Goyle juggled his own burden to open the door to Bellatrix's lab. Crabbe hated it down here. There was something distinctly… off… about the Lestranges, and Bellatrix in particular. If the rumors he heard were to be believed, the experiments she conducted down here with her Muggle victims were twisted even by Death Eater standards. Crabbe liked a good, clean beating or even a straightforward Entrail-Expelling curse as well as the next bloke, but what happened to Muggles down here….

He shuddered and followed Goyle into the room, anxious to be done and back upstairs with a mug of butterbeer, enjoying the apprehensive respect that was accorded to Lord Voldemort's inner circle.

"Oy. I thought you said nobody had gotten Lestrange her specimens." Goyle's irritated gripe pulled Crabbe from his musings.

"That's what Malfoy told me."

"Then who's the bint?"

Crabbe opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance to discover what his reply might have been. A dark, flapping shape had launched itself at his face. He dropped the struggling captive he'd been carrying and raised his arms to protect himself from the razor talons that were slashing alarmingly close to his eyes. Ahead of him he heard Goyle grunt, followed by a few meaty thuds and a sickening crunch of bone hitting stone. Belatedly he fumbled for his wand, but his wrist was caught in a unyielding grip and wrenched away from his robes. He opened his mouth to shout for help as he was forced to his knees, but a brutal strike to his throat left him choking and struggling for breath.

He blinked through sudden tears. A red-haired woman in black, her face painted in a death-rictus, grinned at him. Dizziness assailed him, but he was sure he knew her.

_You._ He managed to mouth the word even though no sound emerged.

"Yes. Me. And you." She locked his arm behind him and began tying him with the black cords that Bellatrix always kept in ready supply. Her almost-pleasant response was at odds with the rough way she was binding him. Goyle whimpered from the floor nearby. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes, and his mouth was slack and drooling. Crabbe realized he'd get no help from that quarter.

"But I'm afraid my fame precedes me. We've never been properly introduced. I'm Lily Potter. And you are…Goyle? Or is it Crabbe?" She finished trussing him and turned to the moaning man, "Severus was right. You are rather interchangeable."

_You… killed… Avery,_ he mouthed. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and it was agony trying to force sound through his crushed windpipe. He yanked at his bonds, but they were so tight that they were already cutting off his circulation.

"And Nott," she said, giving Goyle's bindings an oddly maternal pat. With unexpected strength for such a slight woman, she hauled Goyle back into the cage where Bellatrix kept her specimens, then did the same to Crabbe. He struggled and tried frantically to shout, but only succeeded in exhausting himself.

Unconcerned, Lily Potter turned away from them and moved towards the Muggles. Too stupid to run, they were huddled near the door nursing their injuries. They shied away from her when she leaned down to speak to them, but after only a few soft words they were allowing her to stroke their heads and comfort them like imbecile children. Crabbe couldn't hear what she said, but whatever it was sent them scrambling for the stairs without a backwards glance.

When the Muggles were gone, Potter turned back towards them. Crabbe watched in horrified fascination as she poured a measure of one of Bellatrix's potion bases into two mugs.

"It's an interesting property of Polyjuice Potion that despite the apparent physical changes, one is still oneself," Potter lectured in tones that reminded Crabbe of their old Professor Slughorn. She added hair that she had pulled from the Muggles while stroking their heads, and Crabbe could hear the potion begin to bubble and froth even from across the room. The familiar, sickening stench of fresh Polyjuice filled the room. "One's magical and mental capacity remains the same, injuries sustained in one form persist to the other." Potter picked up both mugs and approached the cage where Crabbe and Goyle were trussed. "And of course, if one dies while polyjuiced, the body will revert to its original form at the end of the duration of the potion, but one will still. be. dead."

Putting one mug down, she grabbed Crabbe by the jaw and pried his mouth open, forcing the disgusting draught down his throat. He tried to close his mouth against it, tried to bite her, tried to spit it out, but she was too strong and too brutal. He was forced to swallow even past the constriction in his throat, or choke to death on the vile potion.

The pain of the transformation distracted him from paying attention while she similarly force-fed Goyle. Before he could think to try to wriggle free of his bonds, she had turned back to him and was tightening them around his now much narrower wrists. He glared up at her and wished that he had the knack for wandless magic.

_You're… going… to… kill… us._

"Oh, no. I have much too much to do this evening. Your fellow Death Eaters aren't going to conveniently kill themselves. No, I think I'll do for you what you've no doubt done for countless Muggles. I'll leave you to Bellatrix's tender ministrations. If you're lucky, she'll get bored with your inability to scream and finish you off quickly. If you're **very** lucky, the fact that you're not wearing Muggle clothes might penetrate her addled brain. But then," she shot him a humorless smile, "it doesn't appear that luck has been kind to you tonight."

Crabbe began to struggle again as Potter rose and returned to the counter. He saw her pour a fresh mug of Polyjuice base and add three long, black hairs to it. In moments he was staring into the cold, dark eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange. He froze in fear, even knowing that it was just her imposter.

_Please,_ he mouthed desperately, tears beginning to pour down his cheeks.

"How many pleas did you ignore?" Her borrowed face was a strange mixture of implacability and compassion, "Why should I be merciful when so many lives are owed to your lack of mercy? No. You will not find any mercy here. Death is a debt that we all must pay. And your account is long past due."

He watched as the false-Bellatrix strode from the room. And then he could only wait in growing terror for the true-Bellatrix to bring him and Goyle their deaths.

He had lost her within moments of their arrival.

Secreted in an alcove off the main hall of the Lestrange's labyrinthine townhouse, Snape surreptitiously watched the comings and goings of his fellow Death Eaters. Hours had passed, yet so far, his spying had yielded no results. No snippet of gossip about any unusual happenings had reached his ears. There was not a clue that Lily was even present – no indication that somewhere in Lestrange House a vengeful Gryffindor revenant was torturing and killing Voldemort's inner circle.

It struck him then that rather than skulk around hoping to hear some whisper of her doings, he could track her through the absence of her quarry. He cursed himself for being three kinds of an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.

Extracting himself from the shadows, he began to cut through the pockets of muttering Death Eaters. The few brave souls who noticed and dared try to approach him were frightened off with one of his deadly glares.

Unlike Nott's spacious Georgian manor, Lestrange House was a warren of twisty hallways and darkened rooms. This meant that the revel was scattered throughout the lower three levels of the house. Snape passed through salons, parlors, studies, libraries and even a linens closet in search of his fellow inner-circle members, but all he found were the lower-level enforcers and toadying sycophants who had been flocking to Voldemort's side since The Fall.

He searched with growing disbelief. Surely she couldn't have dispatched seven powerful wizards so quickly. It was with something akin to relief that he spied a flash of white hair against black velvet robes.

"Lucius," he murmured in greeting as he slid next to the other wizard, effectively cutting the witch Lucius had been speaking with out of the conversation.

"Severus." Lucius' smile was tight, "You're socializing. How novel."

Snape's twist of lips made Lucius' smile look positively effusive, "There are so few of the old guard in attendance. I thought it would be prudent."

"What do you mean?"

That Lucius hadn't noticed worried Snape even more. Either the other wizard was slipping, or Lily was even more subtly deadly than he'd thought. Habit, rather than calculation, made his tone condescending, "Surely you've noticed. Our hosts are nowhere to be found – nor are Crabbe, Goyle or Pettigrew. Given the recent mysterious death of Nott, it occurred to me that we ought to be more cautious."

He carefully gauged Lucius' reaction. He knew he had to be careful in how he played the other wizard. He didn't want to give Lily away, but Lucius knew his in-laws better than Snape. If there were hidden rooms in the house, Lucius was far more likely to know of them.

"And Avery." Lucius' words interrupted Snape's thoughts and it took him a moment to recollect that he was not supposed to know of Avery's death. He pasted a look of faint confusion on his face.

"Pardon?"

Lucius' eyes glanced around them. Apparently deciding that even the people in the hall outside the study were too close, he pulled Snape to a bookcase, which slid silently open at the wave of Lucius' wand. Within moments the bookcase was sliding closed again and Snape found himself standing in a wood-paneled hallway. Lucius muttered a Lumos charm and dim light threw their faces into eerie relief.

"Avery's dead. We found his body at the Leaky Cauldron this afternoon, in even worse condition than Nott's. He had captured the Mudblood, Granger. We told Lord Voldemort that she killed Avery during her escape, but he doesn't really believe it. Neither do I."

"Wait. Granger is alive? Granger was there?"

"Keep up, Severus. She eviscerated him. Pulled out his entrails and played with them like a cat's cradle. Or, rather, someone did."

Even having seen Lily afterwards, even having guessed something of what she had done, seeing the normally imperturbable Lucius Malfoy shaken made the awfulness of Avery's murder more real. Snape swallowed against the churning bile that threatened to rise and reminded himself that it was no worse than what Avery had done to countless women before.

Snape recalled Lily mentioning that Avery had a girl with him when she went to kill him. If it was the Gryffindor swot then the girl would have recognized Lily Potter. She would have told the Order. Even now, they might be planning another foolish, doomed strike. Events were spiraling out beyond his control. Once again, he was serving at the whim of Gryffindor bravado. He hated the uncertainty of such an existence. He had to re-establish control over all the factors before the situation ended up as bolloxed as it had been the previous June.

He forced his mind back to the task at hand – find Lily, see if she had learned anything about the final Horcrux, and if she hadn't then get her out before Voldemort arrived.

"Who do you think did it?" he asked Lucius, his cool tone betraying none of his inner turmoil.

"The landlord didn't break when I questioned him, so either it really was Granger, or he didn't see anything."

"Or he did see something, but he's more afraid of it than of Voldemort," Snape muttered as if to himself. Lucius rose to the bait.

"Do you know something, Severus?"

"Only that two of our number are dead, and not by our Lord's orders. And now all the others seem to be missing on the eve of our Lord's triumphant celebration. Were this a Muggle horror novel, I would suspect one of our own, perhaps even hiding somewhere in this house."

"And that ridiculous supposition is why anything Muggle is a waste of—" Lucius broke off as they both heard a low, animal moan from down the secret hallway. Both wizards had wands drawn in defense, and Lucius had snuffed the light of his spell before the sound faded away.

"What is down that hall?" Snape whispered as his eyes adjusted. He noticed a faint glow from around a far turning in the hallway.

Lucius flashed him a look, "You don't know? Ah. But of course you wouldn't. Bellatrix never really favored you, did she? It's the Lestrange's… playroom."

Snape's lips pursed against any response he might have made. In the early days he had avoided the more sexual escapades of the inner circle. To change that after he had turned spy would have invited potentially fatal comment. Since he was both ugly and lacking in an inclination towards rape, Bellatrix hadn't been forthcoming in her invitations. It was little wonder that he hadn't known of the room's existence.

Another moan sounded from down the hall. It was not a noise that Snape would have ever associated with pleasure, even of the masochistic variety. Lucius apparently was in agreement. Rather than lowering his wand or dismissing the sounds, he began to creep cautiously towards the bend in the passage. Snape quietly followed.

Around the corner was a sturdy wooden door standing slightly ajar. Dim light shone from the other side. With his free hand, Lucius pushed the door open… and froze. Snape was about to snap at the other wizard to move aside when the smell hit him. It was not the first time that day that he had smelled the unmistakable combination of blood and offal. Underneath the moaning he heard a soft, rhythmic squelching.

Ahead of him, Lucius made an incomprehensible choking noise and fumbled a handkerchief to his face, turning aside in the process. With the morbid curiosity that had inspired his interest in the Dark Arts when he was younger, Snape stepped forward so that reality could supersede the awfulness of his imagination. Reality didn't fail him.

The layout of the room was rather plebian in its perversion. There were stone walls covered with swags of wine-dark velvet. Manacles and chains draped over wooden crosses. A variety of leather-wrapped implements of abuse were arrayed on a rack, and from a half-open wardrobe a selection of high-quality PVC, latex, rubber and leather gleamed darkly.

In the center of the room was a huge, wrought-iron bed. It was obviously placed with an intent to draw the eye, but Snape's gaze kept slipping past it, unable to parse what was before him into a coherent picture.

Blood pooled black against the crimson of the bedspread, and dripped down either side of the bed, forming an inkblot shape that looked like nothing so much as a great, dark bird in flight. Chains led from the twisted headboard and footboard to a bloody, huddled shape in the center of the bed. At first it looked like an abomination, with too many limbs for a natural creature, but as Snape stared the shape resolved into two separate forms curled tightly around one another. One of the forms was deathly still, but the other rocked compulsively back and forth. He was pumping desperately into the mouth of the body he clutched, while his own mouth burrowed into the hollow gut cavity, devouring flesh down to the white bone of the spine.

Snape stumbled back, gulping deep breaths of the slightly fresher corridor air to keep down his bile. Lucius appeared to be doing the same.

Taking a deep breath and covering his lower face with his robes, Snape took two steps into the room and thrust his wand towards the bed with a growled _Finite Incantatum_

Nothing happened. The mass of flesh that was Rudolphus and Rabastan Lestrange continued to fuck and devour itself.

He cast the cancelling charm again, his tone shrill from horror and disgust.

"It's not a curse," Lucius panted next to him, "not a spell. It's the chains. They're enchanted. We have to… remove them."

"Enchanted?" Snape looked at Malfoy so he wouldn't have to look at the grotesque on the bed anymore. Lucius' eyes slid away from his, away from the bed. He was even paler than usual. Snape imagined he didn't look much better himself.

"One of Bellatrix's… toys. They're enchanted to increase one's…" He choked; closed his eyes, "appetites."

Breathing shallowly, Snape approached the bed. Puzzling out where the chains manacled around flesh was hellish in its own right. He was forced to decompartmentalize his awareness of the shapes on the bed in order to understand how they fit together. Rudolphus' face was buried in his dead brother's belly. He seemed to be chewing on a bit of gristle attached to the hipbone.

_And the hipbone's connected to the…_ Snape followed the rhyme down Rabastan's leg and found the shackles at his ankles. They clicked open as he touched them with his wand tip and muttered _Alohomora_. Two manacled wrists were wrapped around Rabastan's knees. As he released them, he became aware of a sobbed muttering. Ignoring it, Snape moved his eyes back up the bodies, past where Rudolphus' mouth was whispering bubbles into his brother's gut, past where his chewed entrails were draped and across his brother's chest, past where his torn and bloody cock fucked his brother's slack mouth. Snape found two more manacled ankles and flopping nearby a pair of manacled wrists. He released them. There was a relieved whimper from Rabastan's belly. Backing away, Snape leveled his wand at the still twitching form of Rudolphus Lestrange.

_Avada Kedavra_

Then he was back in the corridor, the door shut against the sight and the smell, breathing deep breaths of fresh air.

Lucius Malfoy had already collected himself. He seemed to be covering his earlier cowardice by enjoying Snape's discomposure with a certain malicious glee.

"Our Lord won't thank you for being so merciful. He will have wanted to question Lestrange as to who did this."

Snape allowed himself the luxury of an extra moment to compose himself before responding. "He wouldn't have survived long enough for us to bring a mediwitch," he said, pleased that his voice at least had returned to its detached drone, "nevermind surviving being questioned by Voldemort.

"What was he saying?" Lucius asked. It was an indication of how shaken he still was that he didn't twit Snape for using Voldemort's name so casually.

"Bella," Snape replied uneasily.

"He was asking for his wife?"

"No. He was cursing her for killing them."

------------------------------------------------

Note: The quote "Death is a debt we all must pay" is from Euripides.


	9. Devil's Night

**Chapter 9 – Devil's Night**

October 31, 12:00am

The Polyjuice had worn off. Lily was no longer straining the seams of her borrowed finery with Bellatrix's borrowed body. Perched high atop a Victorian cupola, she peered down at her next victim as he scurried along the narrow divide between houses.

Pettigrew's shoulders were hunched under his ratty black coat, and even from four stories above, she imagined she could see his nose twitching as his head swung back and forth. He moved cautiously along the trash-strewn passage, a few feet at a time, looking nervously over his shoulder and peering hesitantly ahead. His face was in shadow, but his silver hand gleamed in the darkness.

She swayed on the rooftop, caught in a peculiar triple vision. She saw him from her vantage, and she saw him from the crow's soaring height, but most of all she saw him through memories both hers and not hers. She remembered a pudgy boy whose desperation for the approval of his friends caused him to laugh too loud, and at the wrong things. She saw him grow bitter with never quite being able to compete with his more dashing friends. When the others confidently, almost unconsciously, drew the eyes of girls, he remained the pudgy, pimply tag-along. When the others mastered animal forms that were noble, valiant and true, he became vermin, a lord of filth. She saw his first, shaky steps into Voldemort's circle, saw how he manipulated her and James and Sirius. She saw his betrayal, heard him whisper the secret into Voldemort's ear. She saw him now, scurrying away in the hopes that he would be overlooked by whatever force threatened the inner circle.

A black shape plummeted through the darkness, feathered wingtips brushing the high, narrow walls of the pass-through. The crow dipped, causing Pettigrew to duck with a sharp exclamation, before rising again into the night. Lily stood on the edge of the cupola, grim gaze fixed on the man she had once called friend. The drop to the ground below was a narrow abyss between rooftops. Pettigrew was still staring after the bird, cursing and fumbling with his wand. Lily let the crow's cold thirst for vengeance wash over her. She became something not quite herself. She stepped forward into the abyss.

The wind of her passing was like a gentle caress. It caused her hair and cloak and skirts to billow above her. It reminded her of an illustration out of a book of fairy stories she'd once owned. In the story, the heroine was stolen away by the wind to become Death's bride. The picture was done in the clean, flowing lines of art-nouveaux, and the girl's face had been entirely at peace, despite the terror of her predicament. Lily had always wondered if the girl were already dead. Now she knew.

She landed and absorbed the impact with a crouch, as if falling from four stories was nothing to her – as if it was something she did every day. Pettigrew was facing away, still searching for his feathered nemesis. The crow had wheeled and swooped past his head again, ruffling his thin, wispy hair with the wind of its passing. Pettigrew turned, wand raised, lips already forming a curse. He came face to face with her. His eyes widened in recognition, and the curse died in his mouth.

"Hello, Peter." Lily smiled gently.

-----------------------------------------

The house was in an uproar when Snape and Malfoy quietly let themselves out of the study. Revelers in Death Eater's robes hurried past them in both directions, ignoring the two men. Snape exchanged an apprehensive glance with Malfoy. They moved towards the central hall with set shoulders and grim expressions. The furor could only mean that Voldemort had arrived, and that he was not pleased.

They were not two steps into the hall when they were spied by Dolohov. The tall, gaunt man pushed his way past two semi-hysterical women who were cradling a third trembling form… obviously a bystander who'd run afoul of a random curse from her Lord. Dolohov ignored the women.

"You two. Where have you been? The Dark Lord wants you. Now." If he expected them to quail at his words, he was in for a rude awakening. A wizard did not survive Voldemort's inner circle for long if he was easily intimidated.

"Excellent," Malfoy said smoothly, "for we have terrible news to deliver to our Lord. Take us to him. Now."

Snape had to admire the slightly mocking intonation on the last word, and the way that Malfoy's command effectively placed Dolohov in the roe of escort, rather than jailer. Dolohov seemed to be aware of his sudden status change as well. His face twisted into a scowl of displeasure, eyes jumping between Snape and Malfoy before he grudgingly turned and shoved his way through the crowd. Once they realized where the three men were headed, people seemed only too happy to part for them. Dolohov passed through the hall and down a set of stairs that led to Bellatrix's laboratory.

Snape had been subjected to the dubious pleasure of touring the madwoman's sanctum on one or two occasions. She might not have ever desired him sexually, but she had a healthy respect for him as a fellow practitioner of the Dark Arts. The feeling was not mutual.

The silence of the lab below was interrupted by Bellatrix's sob and the mute rustle of Death Eater robes. Voldemort was in the center of the room, along with a small cadre of his supporters. They were sycophants that regularly rose and fell in the ranks according to the Dark Lord's whim. They had left a small but unmistakable bubble of space between themselves and their Lord, as if by that small remove they could protect themselves from his unpredictable wrath.

Only Bellatrix broke the invisible boundary. She was crumpled on the floor next to him, pale and still twitching from the effects of a recent Cruciatus curse. That alone was enough to chill Snape's blood; he couldn't recall a time that the Dark Lord had punished her thusly. Her trembling hands were reaching for the hem of her Lord's robe, probably to kiss it.

Voldemort jerked the fabric from her grasping fingers with a cold hiss, before turning to glare at the new arrivals. Snape noticed Malfoy's profile smooth into regal indifference, and set himself not to think about all the things he had done to earn his Lord's displeasure.

"Lucius. Severus. So glad you've deigned to join us." Voldemort's sibilant hiss cut through the tension in the cellar. His potential wrath had found a focus. Bellatrix's muffled sobs fell silent. "Had you managed to arrive in a more timely fashion, you might have had the opportunity to enjoy the final moments of two of your fellows, and the punishment of this wretch for her mistake." He kicked at Bellatrix, but she only took it as an opportunity to grasp on to his foot and rain penitent kisses on it.

"Please, my Lord," she supplicated between kisses, "I didn't realize it was them. I didn't know." Snape noticed the gathered Death Eaters shuffling and casting furtive glances towards the corner of the room, at the same time that he noticed that the copper tang on the air was fresh, rather than the embedded scent of old blood layered over old blood. Next to him, Malfoy stiffened almost imperceptibly. Snape's gaze lifted from Bellatrix's pathetic cringing to where Malfoy and the others were looking.

The two bodies chained to the walls inside Bellatrix's cage looked at first like they were in shadow. The faces and bare chests appeared dark and strangely striated. But the whites of the dead, staring eyes gleamed too brightly and too large to be normal. That was when Snape realized that he wasn't looking on skin in shadow, but the dark, meaty red of exposed muscle.

He'd heard that Bellatrix had been working on an improved flensing curse, one that was slower and kept the victims alive for longer. From the builds of the two victims, he'd hazard that Crabbe and Goyle had been her first successful test.

It was a sad testimony to the thoroughness of Lily's vengeance that the results were not the worst carnage he'd seen that day.

"What do you have to say for yourselves? Can you give me any reason not to kill you now?"

It took Snape a moment to realize that Voldemort was addressing Malfoy and himself, and not Bellatrix. It boded ill for how their news would be taken. He'd seen Voldemort kill the messenger on more than one occasion.

"Forgive us my Lord," Malfoy offered, to Snape's surprise. "We were dealing with another matter of great concern. Rabastan and Rodolphus are also dead."

"What?" Voldemort visibly jerked. The gathered supporters flinched away from him. Only Bellatrix, still huddled at her Lord's feet, seemed oddly unfazed.

Malfoy stepped slightly forward, and Snape waited for the other man to sell him out, "I'm afraid it is true, my Lord. We arrived in Rodolphus' last moments. Rabastan was already gone. There was nothing we could do to save either of them." Snape controlled his start of surprise, wondering what game Malfoy was playing.

"And did you at least learn anything useful about who is killing my Death Eaters, or were you as useless as you've been all day?"

"Bellatrix," Malfoy said, with perhaps the barest hint of a smile, and suddenly Snape understood. This was Malfoy's one chance to take down his sister-in-law. Bellatrix, who was already implicated and under suspicion. Bellatrix, whose loyalty could be neither bought nor bartered. Bellatrix, who Malfoy blamed for her part in the deaths of his son and wife. "No one else could have done it. And Rodolphus accused her with his final breath."

"No!" The prone woman finally roused enough from her self-abasement to protest the accusation. Voldemort kicked her again.

"Is this true?" His baleful red glare bored into them, and Snape felt an alien mind, oddly reptilian, brush against his own. He concentrated on Rodolphus' final moments, letting Voldemort see them for himself.

"My Lord," Snape confirmed carefully, "at the end, he named her as his killer."

"No! I would not." Bellatrix rose to her feet, but her stance was still vaguely feral, hands curved into claws. Her breath came heavily, "I live only to serve you, my Lord. This is a trap, a trick."

Snape forced his mind away from thoughts of Lily, and his own actions, and his certain conviction that a certain Gryffindor revenant had somehow managed to implicate Bellatrix in so many deaths. He needn't have worried, he realized as the pressure on his mind receded and Voldemort turned his probing gaze on Malfoy. The Dark Lord was willing to be convinced of Bellatrix's guilt.

"It is too late to protest, Bella," Voldemort said softly, breaking eyes with Malfoy to level a cold glare on the wild-eyed woman. "I have seen the truth through the eyes of the dead and the words of the dying. You have overestimated my patience for your games."

"No games, my Lord. Never with you. I am your most devoted servant."

"Yes, you have made sure of that by murdering your competition. Your service leaves something to be desired, my dear."

"I love you, my Lord." She threw herself again at his feet. He seemed to soften, but Snape knew it for an act.

"Do you, Bella?" He cupped her cheek with one long-fingered hand.

"Yes." She turned to kiss his palm, "I would never betray you. I would do anything for you."

"Would you?"

"Yes!"

"Would you die for me?"

For a moment, Bellatrix seemed completely lucid. Her eyes widened as she realized the trap in her Lord's words – realized he was about to repay her unswerving loyalty with betrayal. Then her face collapsed in despair. Her head shook and her mouth worked as she tried to deny his abandonment of her.

"Wrong answer, my dear Bella." Voldemort leveled his wand at her, "_Avada Kedavra_."

In a flash of green fire, Bellatrix Lestrange collapsed to the floor.

Voldemort regarded her body for a moment, his reptilian features unreadable. "If only all business could be so cleanly resolved. But we have other matters to attend to this night, my Death Eaters." He stepped past the body and glanced over his shocked supporters. "We are lacking only Pettigrew. Find him. Or better yet," he raised a hand before anyone could think to move, "I will."

-----------------------------------------------

"Lily?" Pettigrew blinked rapidly. It was vaguely comical, as was his slack-jawed surprise. She cocked her head, unsure how to respond. Lily. She hardly felt like that woman anymore.

"Is it so hard to believe, Peter?" She was genuinely curious. Perhaps she only thought she was who she claimed. Perhaps she really was just a memory. "Do I look so different?"

"It's been seventeen years." He shook his head. She could sense his struggle to resolve the strangeness of her presence with the banality of their conversation. Just two friends, running into each other after a long absence.

"It feels like just the other day for me." The hardness in her tone reminded them both that however it might seem, there was nothing casual or friendly about this meeting. Whether she was Lily or not, she knew why she was here. Pettigrew's eyes darted up the walls on either side of him, perhaps only just realizing that he was trapped.

"You… this… this isn't possible," he stuttered, seeking escape through denial. She shook her head.

"Of course not. Even magic has its limits. Perhaps I'm no more than a figment of your imagination, or your guilty conscience." She paused, "But no. You would have to feel guilt for that to be so."

He stumbled back a step and she took three forward, closing the distance between them. From a window ledge above her the crow cawed. The gaping abyss roared in her head, devouring the remnants of self that might have recoiled from what she was about to do. She was nothing but vengeance.

She grabbed the back of his neck and forced his face up to the meager yellow light of the street behind her. It glinted off black pupils wide with fear. She felt a ripple of flesh underneath her hand, and she tightened her grip brutally.

"Oh, yes, Peter. Change. Remind me of what a traitorous piece of vermin you are. Let me know the satisfaction of ripping off each of your tiny rat limbs."

"You're the one who killed Nott and Avery," he whispered.

"Yes," she whispered back. He made a feeble attempt at struggling, but she bore him to his knees, bending over him.

"Who are you?" he sobbed. "You can't be her. Who are you, truly. You owe me that at least."

She owed him nothing. She did not wish to step away from the cold, dark abyss that made the killing so easy. She did not want to return to that other place where she remembered who she was, and felt horror at what she was doing. Who was she. She barely knew. She let the pain and horror flood her, and she remembered.

"The first time we met was the night of our Sorting." She could see it. She'd been so happy, so terrified. She'd been separated from her only friend at Hogwarts. The memory hurt almost too much to speak around. Her life felt comprised of 'if only's'.

"You saw me saying goodnight to Severus, saw me hug him. You were so quick to tell James and Sirius. You wanted so much for them to like you, and you sensed already how much they hated Severus. You told everyone. You told them I was a spy for Slytherin." She laughed at this, at the irony. The childhood trauma seemed so insignificant next to the loss of her friends – all of them.

"It was months before anyone in Gryffindor would make friends with me. I forgave you, eventually, for James' sake." Her eyes narrowed. She brought her other hand up, and tightened them around his throat. She began to slide back into the abyss, "I shouldn't ever have done so."

Pettigrew's eyes had widened with her recitation. Now, they bugged from lack of oxygen, and the realization of what she meant to do.

"Tell me you're sorry, Peter," she said to his reddening face. His mouth gaped open, struggling for breath. His hands, one silver and one flesh, scrabbled at hers. He clawed great gouges in her forearms that healed almost instantly. She could feel the frantic flutter of a pulse beneath her palms. The abyss roared at the back of her mind, but she didn't succumb. This death, she wanted to feel. She squeezed harder.

His face turned a sickly grayish-purple. Veins stood out on his neck and temples, ropy and grotesque in the yellow light. His eyes rolled back into his head and his hands flopped uselessly at his sides. The silver made a grating sound as it brushed against the pavement.

Behind her, the crow gave an agitated cry and launched into the air. She heard the scuffle of shoes and the soft rustle of robes. She gave the limp body one more jerking squeeze before releasing her grip to let it slump among the refuse. She felt… hollow. She'd just killed a man, a former friend, and she felt nothing. There was nothing there to feel. Unwilling to face what that meant, she sought refuge again in the abyss.

Straightening, she turned to face her recently arrived audience.

"Thank you for not interrupting."

The figure before her shrugged one shoulder in a gracefully sinuous motion, as if it was of no matter to him. The barely contained fury in his red-slitted eyes belied the movement.

"Hello, Tom," she said, ignoring the crowd of followers that surrounded him. He was all that mattered at the moment. The abyss inside her cried out for him, a hungry wail from the center of her being.

"Hello, Lily," Lord Voldemort responded coolly. "What brings you here?"

--------------------------------------------------

Snape had expected Voldemort to Apparate away. It seemed everyone else had as well. When their Lord started forward, striding up the stairs, all the gathered Death Eaters stood motionless in astonishment. A moment later, they were all rushing to follow. Snape and Malfoy were the first to reach the stairs.

Voldemort's trail took them out to the street and around the side of the house. Snape could see two forms in the shadows of the narrow passage. One of the forms was limp in the grasp of the other. A dark, fluttering shape launched itself skyward and Snape realized with dread who one of the shapes must belong to. A flash of silver in the streetlight gave a good indication as to who the other one was.

Voldemort waited. He waited until his most sycophantic follower was a boneless heap amongst the trash and filth. He waited until Malfoy and Snape and the others eddied around him. His stillness bespoke a fury deeper than Snape had ever seen.

The murderer ahead turned to face them. Her black dress blended with the shadows, but her hair glowed a violent, malevolent red. Even her green eyes seemed feral in the dim yellow light. Her slender fingers flexed, as if she could still feel the life she'd choked out of Pettigrew.

Snape noticed more than one person amongst the followers flinching at that. To a wizard, killing without a wand was obscene… barbaric. A monster, she had called herself, and against his will he began to believe it. He wondered if he should question his own sanity, to ally himself with such a creature. Yet he knew he had no choice. She was Lily, and he was hers. Always.

"Thank you for not interrupting." Her voice was light, conversational. Snape willed her to keep silent, knowing that Voldemort would not be placated. Under his usual blank façade, Snape's mind raced. He could see no way that this could end in anything but Lily's death.

He should never have brought her here this night.

"Hello, Tom," she said, making matters even worse. No one dared to refer to the Dark Lord by his chosen name, nevermind the name of his birth.

"Hello, Lily." Lord Voldemort's tone was equally soft. It didn't make it any less menacing.

Snape began edging towards the wall, peripheral to any line of fire, but still accessible to both adversaries should he need to act. Malfoy was shifting in the same direction, though Snape suspected it was for reasons of self-preservation.

"What brings you here?" The Dark Lord was asking, as if it weren't obvious.

"Vengeance," she answered, motioning towards Pettigrew's body. She shifted her arc so that the motion encompassed Voldemort and his followers, "and unfinished business, of course. What else drives a ghost from her grave?"

"You are no ghost," Voldemort observed, his glance flicking towards the corpse on the ground.

"I am as much a ghost as you are."

"And it is you who has been slaughtering my Death Eaters?"

"Not just me. Nott and Avery, and now Peter, of course. But Bellatrix took care of Crabbe and Goyle herself, and technically the Lestrange men killed each other."

"How." The question was rough and low. Voldemort's thin control was slipping.

"Polyjuice. I imagine you've already meted out punishment? Your poor Bella. She must have felt so betrayed, there at the end."

Voldemort's temper snapped. Knowing what was to come, Snape jerked forward. His instinct was to somehow intervene, even if it was foolishly impossible – even if it would result in his death. Malfoy sidestepped in front of him, impeding his action, but also blocking it from anyone else's notice.

With a howl, Voldemort he raised his wand and slashed it at Lily.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

The alley was lit by a flash of sickly green light. The afterimage of a dozen gloating faces were burnt into Snape's vision, as was Malfoy's enigmatic glare, Voldemort's twisted scowl, and Lily's serene smile. Snape fought not to collapse to the ground at losing her again. He was unaccountably assisted by Malfoy's supporting hand under his elbow.

A sound penetrated his shock. The smug grins of the other Death Eaters faded. It was laughter – a light, feminine laugh.

"You aren't very bright, are you Tom? I said I was as much a ghost as you… or did you think I was being poetic?"

Lily stood there, smiling as if she hadn't a care in the world. Even in his rush of relief, Snape was unnerved. There was something inhuman about her eyes. She took a step forward, and all the Death Eaters shifted back. Only Voldemort held his ground.

"Impossible," the Dark Lord whispered.

"Not particularly. Not even the first time it's happened to you, is it?" She took another step forward. Voldemort rallied his fury.

"_Sectumsempra_." Snape flinched. Long, vicious slashes rent the bodice of her dress and the pale skin underneath. Voldemort's sneer of satisfaction was short-lived. Before everyone's eyes the cuts began to knit themselves closed. Snape had never seen such magic. Not even the Dark Lord could heal so quickly.

Voldemort seemed to realize that she was now as untouchable as he.

"Soul magic," he bit out. "I'm surprised your Order would stoop to such things. Have the heroes finally succumbed to the Dark? How brave. How valiant. How hypocritical."

"As usual, Tom, you are blind to any perspective but your own." Lily had taken several more steps forward. Less than a meter separated her from the Dark Lord.

"You have a weakness. You must. Whatever it is, I will find it."

"As I have found yours." That gave Voldemort pause. Snape felt a rush of shocked elation. Had she somehow prized the secret of the final Horcrux from one of her victims? Voldemort shook his head, as if by denying her words he would deny the possibility that they were true.

"Bravado. If you though you could kill me, then why haven't you done so."

"Because, Tom, it isn't your time yet. You still have one more day. October 31st, remember? Now I'm being poetic."

Voldemort's serpentine features twisted in rage again.

"_Crucio!_"

Lily stood unmoved.

"Pain? Oh, Tom. Nothing you could wish on me is worse than what I already suffer. My son, my husband, all my friends dead and gone. I've lost everything that meant anything to me." Snape couldn't quite fight back the surge of pain that those words sent through him. He knew he'd stopped meaning anything to her long ago, that she meant to kill him, but still it hurt.

Lily took the final step towards Voldemort. They stood chest to chest. The Dark Lord towered over her, yet somehow she seemed the larger. He quailed before her. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in a voice that carried through the silence.

"I'm just here to return the favor."

She sank back to her heels, still gazing up into his face. She must have been satisfied with what she saw there. She smiled that gentle, motherly smile and began to walk past Voldemort, towards the mouth of the alley. Death Eaters parted before her, terror on every face. She reached the mouth of the alley and disappeared into the night.

"Leave me." Voldemort's voice was chill and soft.

The alley echoed with loud pops as Death Eaters began to make their escapes, anxious to leave before their Lord took his wrath out on them. With one last unreadable glance, Malfoy Apparated as well. Snape hesitated, but knew he could not follow Lily into the night. He would have to wait and hope she returned to Grimmauld Place. With a swish of his wand, he left Voldemort standing alone in the dark.


End file.
